


All the courage you have left

by girlwithabird42



Series: Haunted by American dreams [3]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Gen, Grief/Mourning, Healing, Posthumous Characters, Revenge, Writing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-12 18:33:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28514997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlwithabird42/pseuds/girlwithabird42
Summary: Oftentimes, Jack is more among ghosts than the living.  PostRed Dead Redemption.
Relationships: Abigail Roberts Marston & Jack Marston, Jack Marston & Arthur Morgan, Jack Marston & Charles Smith, Jack Marston & John Marston, Jack Marston & Sadie Adler, Jack Marston & Tilly Jackson
Series: Haunted by American dreams [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2052933
Comments: 10
Kudos: 37





	1. Slept on an acre of bones

“Don’t look back.”

They don’t heed pa’s order for long. He escaped twice before, surely he could do it a third time.

Momma’s howl of agony is the most terrifying thing Jack’s ever heard. She has no fear of the blood, laying her head against pa. For his part, Jack edges away from the creeping pool.

Once the initial shock ebbs, it takes both of them to move pa and Uncle’s bodies to clean blankets in the summer kitchen. Momma’s hands keep slipping on account of the blood. Jack wishes he were stronger so he could spare her this.

She wipes the sweat from her brow, leaving another streak of blood. “He always made sure to wear that shirt, in spite of the trouble it caused,” she says absently staring at pa’s gory remains.

For a terrible moment, Jack fears for momma’s sanity as he fears for his own. This is all too much to bear.

Momma bursts into tears again, leaning her head against Jack’s chest. A few short months ago he would have been too small. At least now there’s some comfort in his ungainly growth spurt.

As momma cries, Jack’s thoughts cannot be still. Pa’s dead, Uncle’s dead and Jack’s covered in their blood, same as he was a year before when it was his little sister. Pa did what Agent Ross asked and they still killed him. Or maybe pa didn’t and that’s why they did. It doesn’t really matter.

There have been times he’s been called on to take care of momma in pa’s stead, but there was always reprieve. In an instant he is no longer a child. It doesn’t stop the tears from flowing.

Jack’s voice cracks, betraying his age. “We need to wire Tilly. I should write to Charles and Sadie too.”

That they haven’t had word from the Marstons in months isn’t unusual but everything –

Momma sniffs, composing herself, “See to the undertaker as well.” She says it so dispassionately.

“Momma…”

“These things need to be seen to. Just… give me an hour and we’ll see to the farm. Blackwater first thing tomorrow.”

Momma locks herself in the washroom.

Jack fingers pa’s rifle, wondering ‘What would pa do?’ It is stupid and childish to think he can turn himself into a hunter, someone who can protect. A gun didn’t do anything good to save pa, what the Hell good is to going to do for Jack?

Even with the new cattle, there isn’t much to do on the farm. It’s only been a few weeks, there wasn’t even time to replant. Pa wanted Jack to take over Beecher’s Hope. He already knows he’ll be lousy at it.

God knows what they’ll have for supper tonight. Though he’s never quite got the hang of it, Jack grabs a fishing pole and heads to the stream. His heart not in it, Jack stares anywhere but the water.

He catches a small whine from the brush. “Rufus?”

The dog emerges, tail between his legs. How he managed to escape the assault on the farm, Jack will never know, but he doesn’t care. It won’t bring anyone back, but it’s the first time in hours Jack hasn’t been lost in the depths of grief.

“Good boy,” he scratches the old mutt between the ears. Rufus stays at Jack’s side as he collects his meager catch. It’ll be enough to feed momma at least.

Momma doesn’t shoo Rufus out of the kitchen when he follows Jack in. More food is pushed around plates than eaten.

“Guess we ain’t really hungry,” momma gives a weary, half-smile. Jack reaches out and squeezes her hand. When he lets go, momma fiddles with her uncovered wedding ring, more tears forming at the corners of her eyes.

Jack must have some sort of stricken look on his face because momma speaks again. “Don’t worry, I’ll be alright Jack,” she sniffles without even a reassuring smile. “It’s getting late. I’m going to bed.”

Jack leaves his plate on the floor and wanders aimlessly around the house. In so many ways, the house looks no different than it did that morning. Pa’s cigarettes and the Sunday paper are still on the side table; pillows still crushed in Uncle’s chair. Jack knows about the old man’s liquor stashed in the eaves Uncle thought he hid so well.

Jack snuck cigarettes in the wake of Susanna, but never booze. He doesn’t know if it’s a good or a bad thing he wants neither now.

Jack presses his ear against his parents’ bedroom door. There isn’t even the faintest sound of crying.

When Jack finally climbs into bed, he doesn’t fall asleep.

It doesn’t seem real, pa and Uncle laid out, dead and gone. Jack anticipated and dreaded seeing his father in near equal measure for months. Now he’ll never talk to pa again, nor sit in understanding silence, nor hug him again.

Ugly, wracking sobs overtake Jack. He thinks he imagines hearing the door opening, though he’s too blinded by his tears to see momma rush over. She climbs onto the bed, cradling him as if he was a baby and not nearly grown.

Rocking him back and forth, her voice is muffled by his hair. “I know Jack. I know.”

“Why’d he have to go?” Jack finally manages between hiccups.

So many people had to go, people Jack barely remembers, people Jack barely knew. But just maybe, he finally knew pa.

“He never wanted to go. He would have stayed and seen you grow up in every way. Maybe start your own family. I was so ready to grow old and grey with him.”

Jack can’t stop crying.

“Your pa loved you so much and he was so proud of you Jack. I know he had a hard time saying it, but it ain’t any less true.” Momma chuckles wearily, such a strange sound. “Uncle too, in his way.”

In spite of himself, Jack laughs through his tears.

Momma kisses the top of his head. “They’re with a lot of other people they love. Your sister, your Uncle Arthur. And we got each other.”

There’s such a sharp and dreadful pain in Jack’s chest. He wouldn’t have counted his mother as a particular believer – certainly he doesn’t himself, but it is a comfort now, hurting as he does.

“We do have each other, momma.”

“You’ve been so, so brave today Jackie.”

Even though his crying’s slowed, momma continues to rock Jack.

“Will you stay?” he asks in a small voice.

“Sure. It was too hard being in that bed alone.”

“Thank you, momma.”

It’s cramped and uncomfortable, but Jack eventually finds sleep with his momma holding him close.

\----------

Tilly’s there before a date is even set, her daughters, Florence and Irene, in tow. Tilly and momma hug for a long time.

“I’m afraid we ain’t got too much in ways of entertainment for the girls,” momma says.

“It’s fine, it’d do them some good to wash dishes once in their lives.”

“You sound like Grimshaw.”

They both laugh. It’s good to hear momma laugh like that.

Tilly sobers up. “Any word from Mrs. Adler or Charles?”

Jack shakes his head. “Even if they got the letters by now, there’s no way they’ll get here quick enough. We weren’t sure where they were before –” his throat sticks. Before their little utopia was shattered, before –

“Well I’m glad one of us from the old days could be here,” Tilly pats Jack’s hand.

There’s a letter from David Geddes Jack reads aloud to momma. Her mouth twitches at the mention how they were eternally grateful for pa’s hard work and assistance saving the ranch.

“ _Assistance_ ,” she tuts.

“You know that wasn’t pa’s fault.”

“I know. Still stings.”

Jack shows Florence and Irene some of his old books, some of Susanna’s old toys.

He misses his baby sister even worse than he thought possible. Selfishly he wants her back to help him, help momma get through this. But maybe it’s better Susanna was spared the imprisonment, spared seeing pa’s blood flooding the barnyard, Uncle’s dripping off the porch.

Once the girls are put to bed, they pick out coffins from a catalog. Jack fills out the form, momma signs the bottom. She dictates the notices for the paper to Tilly. Reading over them, Jack’s struck by how unremarkable pa and Uncle come off, but then that’s the point. Who they really were can’t be known and they hadn’t been those men for a long time.

Date set, the preacher is given free rein to select readings; momma tells him no one has any particular favorites.

Momma instructs for a space to be set between Susanna and pa. “For myself.”

“Don’t be morbid, momma.”

“I ain’t, it’s just a fact,” she says irritably. “And I ain’t burying my other baby neither.”

Jack can’t think about her dying too, not now, but it’d be awfully unfair if everyone in the family predeceased her.

The day of the funeral is an unremarkable, temperate prairie day. There are storm clouds over the mountain; Jack knows they won’t blow south, at least not today. The wind only faintly stirs the leaves over the graves.

Momma’s unnervingly quiet, her face as white as sheet. Jack keeps wiping his nose furiously on his sleeve. Tilly at least brought a real handkerchief. Her girls hold fistfuls of wild roses to keep from fidgeting, under no obligation to mourn men they did not know.

“Who’s that?” Tilly gently nudges Jack as momma speaks to the preacher after. Someone Jack truly would not have expected to see, today of all days.

Bonnie McFarlane hovers anxiously at the edges. “I read… I saw the obituary in the paper. I just wanted to say I’m very sorry for you and your boy’s loss, Mrs. Marston. My father and I wanted you to have this,” she says, offering the largest slab of beef Jack’s ever seen.

“Thank you,” momma says, a little coolly.

Jack doesn’t blame her. Miss McFarlane’s presence is a reminder pa was only back with them a little while, not the years they thought they’d get.

Momma invites Miss McFarlane for a meal. It’s more awkward than when Uncle Arthur’s old sweetheart visited to Jack’s recollection. Sure, pa could barely contain his contempt for Mary Gillis, but momma was hospitable then.

Momma doesn’t seem herself at all; aloof and quiet. Tilly’s eyes occasionally narrow. Jack can’t make what Miss McFarlane’s nervous prattle is about, but he feels for her.

Momma has a lie-down after their unexpected guest leaves.

Tilly privately scoffs as she and Jack do the dishes. “That woman couldn’t have been more obvious if she tried. As if your pa wasn’t wholly set on your momma.”

Jack shifts his weight, sloshing water in the sink. He’s never been in love, much less had a sweetheart, but he didn’t think Miss McFarlane had those kinds of feelings for pa. But maybe Tilly’s right, she knows more about these sorts of things.

“The McFarlanes helped out when we got back here,” Jack explains, offering a weak defense.

Tilly harrumphs and doesn’t push further.

Tilly and her girls stay a week before going back to Saint Denis. Even though Jack has a few inches on her, as Tilly hugs him close in goodbye, Jack is suddenly back to the long and dreadful night when he thought himself truly an orphan and Tilly was the only person left in his world.

“I better hear from you soon, do you understand?”

“Yes ma’am,” Jack mumbles, almost afraid to let go.

The house is painfully still without anyone else. Momma gets to cleaning, scrubbing everything whether it needs it or not. Jack tries, he really does, with the cattle, but he’s too overwhelmed.

“We ought to give some of them back to the McFarlanes. It doesn’t feel right, selling them off,” Jack says to momma as she helps with the horses.

Sometimes the wind whistling through cracks sounds like Uncle. Jack climbs the ladder to the loft, emptying murky bottles out onto the dirt. He grabs pa’s cigarettes before momma pitches them.

He’s not really sure what consolation they were for his father, if there was respite in the ritual. Jack turns a cigarette over several times in his fingers before lighting it.

He’d forgotten what the burn was like.

The cigarette’s almost down to its butt when Jack spots a horse and rider tearing up the road to the house. He doesn’t have time the time to put out his cigarette and call for momma when Sadie dismounts, running up the steps in a cloud of dirt, patting Jack on the cheek.

“You poor, poor thing. Where’s your mother?”

“Inside, I think.”

Sadie smiles sympathetically. “You’re so much bigger than when I saw you last, and far too old honey.”

Jack lets momma and Sadie take their time. He lights another cigarette and sets about yard work. When he finally slips inside, he sinks to the floor, sight unseen.

“– all of them in a year Sadie and we weren’t even together most of it.” A loud sniffle. “I can smell the cigarette. Stop hiding, Jack.”

Jack sheepishly steps into the sitting room. Momma’s face is blotchy and red, Sadie holds her close. Jack sits next to Rufus on his bed.

Momma lets out a frustrated noise. “We ain’t ever gonna be free of this grief, huh?”

Jack tucks his knees under his chin, holding himself close.

“I wish John’d sent word to me, I would have seen to the whole stupid –”

“And gotten yourself killed in the process?” momma fires back. “The Pinkertons didn’t want you nor Charles nor anyone else. They wanted Dutch and they wanted John. John wouldn’t have stood for anyone else going too.”

Jack watches Sadie fight to restrain herself for making her case on something that’s passed to a dead man. “It’s been years since Dutch made any big scores. Why now?” she muses out loud.

When neither momma nor Jack have an answer, Sadie settles for continuing to rub momma’s back.

After dark, Jack finds Sadie out on the porch smoking. “Want one?” she offers Jack.

“I’m alright,” Jack shakes his head.

Smoke curls out her nose. “I wouldn’t have guessed in a hundred years you’d have taken after John like that.”

“He was my pa.”

“He was.”

Jack was closer to Charles than Sadie last time they stayed on, no doubt, but he’s surprised by how comfortable he is in the silence with her.

“My sister and I ain’t spoke in years, but your parents – they’ve been good company.”

“I think so too.”

“I’ll stay on as long as your ma wants, but don’t ever be afraid to ask me for something. I’ll come running.”

Aunt Sadie to the rescue.

\----------

Sadie stays for a good long while and, for a bit, it feels like Beecher’s Hope isn’t falling behind with the three of them working it.

Sadie slips off sometimes when they go into Blackwater.

“Guess we ain’t the wild company she’s used to,” momma jokes as they watch Sadie march into the saloon. She always comes back though.

“I was asking around,” Sadie says between forkfuls of dinner. “About them Pinkertons set on John.”

Momma grunts in distaste. “The pair of you cannot leave it be. First Micah, now this. How many times we gotta go through this before someone learns their lesson?”

Jack twists his napkin under the table. Like Sadie, he’s curious why the Pinkertons chose to go after his pa, a man who hadn’t broken the law in years, at least to Jack’s knowledge. Why the government went and broke the family’s hard-earned peace.

But he hears momma too. Their family is a particular brand of dumb that keeps reaching for the very thing that hurts them.

Sadie drops the subject, but doesn’t stop disappearing on them, now for longer spells. Even if she comes back, Sadie’s clearly restless beyond the unfinished business and starts looking west.

“You’re both doing alright and I’ll try not to be a stranger so long.”

Momma’s good spirits slowly return as they settle into a new routine. It’s at odds with sense, they could use the company, but Sadie kept picking at things that rankled momma. Jack watches her play fetch with Rufus out the window as he muddles through the accounts.

“Let’s go into town, just for the Hell of it,” momma proposes after the morning chores. “I’ll drive.”

Jack only ever saw pa with the reigns and while he’s gotten the hang of the wagon, the horses know he’s still tentative. “Can you?”

Momma tsks. “A damn sight better than you.”

It’s odd, walking around Blackwater with no intended purpose. Momma keeps wistfully looking at the nickelodeon theater. Jack always wondered what she and pa got up to when they’d leave him and Uncle home for the day.

“We can go if you want.”

Momma shakes her head and sniffs. “Just looking.”

She heads to the general store; Jack walks to the post office, wondering if any of their regular correspondents wrote back. Jack blinks twice at the piece of mail waiting; it’s from Charles.

It’s been _months_. Jack’d given up hearing anything, much less the notion the news made it all the way to Canada. He pockets the letter and goes to rejoin momma.

“Anything from Tilly or Sadie?”

Jack shakes his head, not technically a lie. No need to spoil her good mood right now.

He opens the letter when momma goes to milk the cow.

_Jack,_

_There is no easy way to start this, but not half as difficult as what you and your mother have faced these past few years. I grieve the deaths of your father and Uncle. They were good people and dear friends._

_At risk of being presumptuous, I know what it is like to mourn a father you love but struggle to understand. Like you, I felt my father often could not see me. If it is any comfort, your father_ did _see you, even when you were not there._

_When we were building Beecher’s Hope, your father, never much of a conversationalist, mentioned how your room had plenty of space for bookshelves to be filled. That struck me at the time and all these years later, I think of it still. You were not the same people, but John saw you._

_I am sorry I am only sending this letter and not myself, but you and your mother are in good hands with each other. Remind her of my great regard for her and continue to be strong yourself._

_Faithfully,_

_Charles Smith_

Jack looks up, fighting the tears that could splotch the ink. Sure enough, as pa predicted, there’s books scattered all over Jack’s room.

Charles’ letter hurt, but something feels better in Jack’s heart, something he didn’t know needed healing.

He’ll keep this letter with one pa wrote momma, in Jack’s safekeeping since they came home for the first time.

When momma comes back inside, Jack sits her down. “We did get one piece of mail today. Let me read it to you.”

\----------

When a piano arrived with the rest of the Geddes’s housewarming gift, Jack took momma’s excitement for the trappings of a fine household. He was surprised to hear her playing a jolly tune on it.

“Where’d you learn that?”

Momma shrugged. “Around. This thing’s horribly out of tune and I wouldn’t know the first thing about fixing it. Besides, I don’t even know any songs I like.”

“Maybe one day we’ll get her preforming in a concert hall,” pa said from behind the paper.

Momma rolled her eyes and shut the lid.

Years after that conversation, it’s unexpected when Jack comes in from chores to hear the soft plinking of the piano, momma’s sorrowful face at odds with the music.

“If you don’t like it, you don’t have to do it,” Jack points out.

“I figured if I tried hard enough at going back to being a little girl, maybe things would go back to they why they was. Folks would come back.”

Jack always thought of his parents as quite old, it now occurs to him momma’s still relatively young. He not so far off from the age they were when he was born. He’s not sure why that bothers him.

Momma is slow at chores some days; Jack picks up her slack. He doesn’t mind, keeping busy keeps him from despairing, but he’s worried.

“Please rest, momma,” Jack insists.

Reluctantly, she moves to her chair. “I’m just a bit dizzy is all.” She chuckles. “I only ever had fainting spells when I was knocked up and it sure as Hell ain’t that now.”

“Should I go fetch the doctor?”

Momma frowns. That only furthers Jack’s resolve he ought to.

Jack steps away from the wagon while they’re in Blackwater. Momma’s at the general store buying seed, so he should have enough time.

It’s the same doctor who delivered Susanna. “Can you make a house call? My momma doesn’t know I’m here, but I’m worried about her. I’ll figure out how to pay, but please sir. She’s the only one I got left.”

Jack hovers in the doorway as the doctor looks over momma.

“It’s not good news, I’m afraid. It’s cancer. There are some options, but none of them are pretty. You’ve got some time young lady, best thing you can do is let your son keep you comfortable.”

Momma won’t look at Jack when he sits on the edge of the bed. “I’m so sorry.”

“What for, momma?”

“I didn’t mean to leave you so soon.”

“You’re not gone yet.”

Momma gives a weary smile and squeezes Jack’s hand. “No, not yet.”

Everything that’s happened, all the horror and sadness, somehow Jack isn’t broken by it. Maybe he’s already broken, but he’s got a purpose: he’s going to take care of momma. It’s what he’s here for.

He doesn’t cry in front of her, saving it for burying his head under his pillow as Rufus whines quietly. Jack’s dry-eyed in the morning when he and momma make breakfast.

“Since when do you drink coffee?” momma asks in amusement.

“Since now,” Jack shrugs. When momma’s not looking Jack pours a little more milk in his mug.

Momma starts going through pa’s things with purpose. A year’s distance of mourning and she’s finally ready. Holding shirts up to Jack, her brow furrows. “I ain’t much of a seamstress but maybe you’ll grow into some of them.”

Jack reads momma his favorite books when she gets too tired. She prefers knights and ladies above all else. Mary-Beth’s books particularly make her smile.

“You ever think about writing?” momma asks out of the blue.

All the things Jack’s shared with her, he’s never said that out loud. There were always her dreams for him or pa’s.

Christ, he has no idea how he’ll pay to keep the farm running, but he has to. His parents fought tooth and nail for this; Jack can’t lose it.

“I have. Don’t know how good a writer I’d be though.”

“I think you should.”

Jack’s not even sure what stories he’s got in him, but for momma, he’ll find something.

\----------

Momma must be digging through old things again because she hands Jack a worn leather journal shortly before his birthday.

“This were your Uncle Arthur’s. Your pa held onto it all these years although I don’t ever think he looked at it. Too painful, I guess. Still, I can’t bear to get rid of it.”

Jack runs his finger up and down the spine late at night after momma’s turned in.

Curiosity gets the better of him and he opens it. It surprisingly falls open naturally to a spot as if read as often by a God-fearing person and their Bible, Jack guesses. He can’t imagine what pa needed to see time and again.

The contents are even more unexpected. There, on the page, is a drawing of momma and himself as a very little boy. Jack didn’t even realize Uncle Arthur drew, and so well as that. The page is held with a slip of paper – a drawing Jack himself faintly recalls giving Uncle Arthur in exchange for something, probably for momma.

Jack swallows the lump in his throat.

There’s another piece of paper interleafing the journal. It also falls open to the intended page, clearly another passage often revisited. Jack doesn’t recognize the handwriting on the letter, but upon examination, realizes it’s the letter momma left for pa when they fled Pronghorn Ranch.

It would appear pa took momma’s words to heart. Jack still has the letter’s mate in his possession at momma’s behest. It ought to go here for safekeeping.

Jack has no heart to read the journal in full, but he does open to other pages, taking in about a hundred drawings. Some are quick, some thoughtful. Uncle Arthur saw so many strange and wonderful things.

Jack goes back to the family portraits. It’s no wonder pa went back to them, though the writing on the opposite page suddenly catches his eye; Jack’s jaw drops.

If pa hadn’t come back, Uncle Arthur intended to marry momma.

Jack has fond enough memories of the man, if faint, but he doesn’t know if he ever could have called Uncle Arthur ‘pa’. His own father gave him so much, in the end.

He wonders if momma knows.

Jack flips back to pa’s other saved spot.

It speaks of intentions to spring pa from prison, of an affection for pa. Jack always understood pa considered Arthur to be his brother, even if he didn’t talk about the man. Here’s proof Arthur felt the same.

Jack reads both passages to momma the next day. She chews on her lip, drawing her shawl close around her shoulders. She’s thinner than Jack these days.

“I had no notion. I uh… hmm.”

“You really had no idea?”

Momma shakes her head. “That was Arthur though, always making sure you and I was okay.”

“Pa did that too.” Jack’s not sure why he gets so defensive, usually he was the first to catalog pa’s faults.

Momma smiles, patting Jack’s face. “I wouldn’t have been much of a wife to Arthur, but he would’ve been a decent father to you.”

Jack inhales sharply. He only has good memories of the man at the time where his actual father was nonexistent.

“Arthur had a little boy of his own. John told me that after he died.”

“What happened to him?” Jack asks, though he can guess the answer.

“He died real young.”

Jack feels a sort of loss he cannot explain. He’s used to being lonely, but now he can’t shake how it’s followed him so keenly all his life. How it will continue to follow him still.

The old journal is too personal.

“I wish I knew Uncle Arthur better.”

Momma smooths down Jack’s hair. “I wish you did too.”

\----------

It was too much to expect Sadie, far gone in parts unknown, but Tilly is there when Jack feels overwhelmed as momma continues to decline. Rather than her daughters, she brings another woman, warm and smiling.

“I doubt you remember me, but I certainly remember you, Jackie,” Mary-Beth says, pulling him into an unexpected hug. “Gosh, you’re so grown-up.”

“Momma and I have been enjoying your books,” Jack says, at a loss to say the near stranger.

Mary-Beth laughs, “Oh you don’t need to put on so.”

Jack keeps finding repairs that need to be made on the farm. He attempts some of them, but the place is looking shabby these days. Tilly and Mary-Beth help out, but they’re mostly company for momma. Most days she only gets as far as her chair in the sitting room.

When Jack’s not too exhausted, he sits with them and listens to the stories about the old days. Sometimes they sound like miss that life. Sometimes they sound like it was a nightmare they barely escaped. Jack imagines it’s both in near-equal measure.

“I’m so angry about Karen. Not at her just – it’s a hard way to end,” momma shakes her head. “I shoulda been there.”

“You had someone to look out for too,” Mary-Beth reassures her.

Jack finds Mary-Beth out by the graves one day after he’s seen to the horses.

“I’m sorry I missed the funerals. Uncle was a funny old coot. He always made me laugh.”

“Me too.”

Mary-Beth smiles sadly. “And I bet your kid sister were sweet, just like you.”

Jack doesn’t feel sweet. Mostly he feels bowed by everything.

Tilly and Mary-Beth can’t stay forever. Momma’s smiling, of all things, as she waves goodbye. Jack frowns.

“Don’t fret, boy. I’ve made my peace.”

\----------

Jack goes into Blackwater for three things: medicines that don’t really make momma better, the occasional pack of cigarettes, and frivolities for momma.

“Your college education,” momma despairs as Jack puts a new cylinder in the phonograph, filling the sitting room with the kind of music heard in cities.

“I didn’t even go to high school, momma. College is far beyond me.”

“You were always so clever though,” she pouts, but argues no further.

Jack loves momma more than anyone living, but her threshold for clever is somewhat low.

Momma doesn’t have energy for much these days, but at least manages to get herself to the porch rockers to see Beecher’s Hope. Jack reads her the old favorites, the new ones Mary-Beth sends along as they’re published.

Alone, Jack fingers Uncle Arthur’s journal. He wants to read it, but instinct tells him to save it, for before too soon, it’ll be his last connection to anyone.

There’s a hastily scrawled letter from Sadie.

_The Pinkertons who got your pa was paid for by Cornwall’s folks. Those bastards weren’t ever going to let it go. I’ll look further into it, see who we got to go after. For you and your ma’s sakes._

_I hope Abigail’s feeling well, all things considered._

Jack should write back, discouraging Sadie from a course that will only put her in the same position as pa. But he knows it won’t stop her and besides, there’s a twisted part of him that _needs_ to know. The name Cornwall’s like a half remembered memory that’s been haunting Jack all his life.

He feels bad, not telling momma they’ve gotten word from Sadie, but if he tells her, he’ll have to the read the whole thing, and momma will insist so that he tells Sadie off. Jack rationalizes that the doctor insisted momma have nothing to distress her these last months and that’s just what this letter is.

Jack hides his smoking on the far side of the barn, buries his crying under his pillow. Nothing but solid and steady to the world.

“I’d like to see John,” momma murmurs one morning after pushing her breakfast around her plate instead of eating it.

“Okay. We can do that,” Jack says fighting the lump in his throat.

Heavily bundled, she leans on Jack as they slowly walk up the hill. It’s icy, difficult even for a person in full health. About halfway there, she stops; in too much pain to go on further herself.

“Let me carry you.”

There’s a flicker of disbelief on momma’s face, then she nods. Even a few months ago, Jack couldn’t have managed it, but taking care of the farm himself and momma’s illness rendering her practically weightless, it’s not as impossible a task as Jack feared.

“It sure is a pretty spot, ain’t it?” momma nods in approval, resting in the vacancy next to pa’s grave. Beecher’s Hope is winter desolate, but Jack can see what she means.

Four days later, Jack comes in the house, Rufus whining and pawing at his parents’ door. Jack slips in the room. Momma is unmoving; he takes her cold hand in his.

Momma doesn’t look quite peaceful in death. There’s a slight furrow in her brow and the few strands of silver in her dark hair age her.

In his experience, death is quick and violent. Pa, Uncle, Susanna, everyone he knew as a child. Watching momma’s slow decline was less shocking, but more painful in a way.

Yet Jack thinks back to listening to conversations between momma, Tilly, and Mary-Beth about Karen, about how ugly her last days in the bottle were. In his memory, Karen used to pinch his cheeks and slip him a piece of candy.

He remembers the last time he saw Uncle Arthur, a shadow of the man who used to show him how to do his chores around the camp.

Jack crawls onto the bed, cradling his mother, sobbing until there’s nothing left.

It’s too _soon_.

Jack can’t stay here with momma forever, try as he might. He dries his eyes and closes the door behind him.

\----------

He wishes there was a telephone at Beecher’s Hope. A letter will have to do.

_Please Tilly, I can’t do this alone._

Jack bathes and shaves so he doesn’t look a complete fright when house guests arrive. He keeps errantly staring at the photographs on the mantle. He’s so scared he’ll forget what everyone in his family looked like.

It’s awkward when Tilly arrives with all her family, but Jack’s grateful for the additional company, near-strangers that they are. Better than rattling around this big place alone. He installs himself in Uncle’s loft, giving the Pierres the run of the rest of the house.

Snow flurries coat everything white. It is hard digging to get six feet down, the prairie dirt frozen through.

Jack’s cried so much these past few years, he can’t muster anything at the graveside. Tilly openly weeps, her husband’s arm around her shoulders.

The preacher says a lot about eternity and peace. Jack can’t wrap his head around forever, but he prays as he never has before momma’s now at rest. She deserved it in life more than anyone; maybe she’ll finally have it somewhere else.

No one else comes to the funeral. No one saw the obituary, no one bothered to write. It rankles Jack somehow. _Where are Sadie, Mary-Beth, Charles? If they all cared about momma as much as they said they would have done something_.

Jack barricades himself in his room after.

A rap at the door.

“You want some dinner?” Tilly asks.

“I’m fine,” Jack mumbles, rolling over on his bed.

“Come back with us to Saint Denis,” Tilly says, hand on Jack’s arm as they prepare to leave. “Even for a little while.”

“I’ve got to take care of the farm,” Jack insists, as he has so many times since pa died.

Tilly remains unconvinced as the Pierres’ carriage rolls away and Jack is alone, surrounded by nothing but wide open grey prairie.

He could swear the grass whispers to him in wind.

\----------

The farm muddles along for a few months, but it will never be the same. Jack keeps it going because if his body is occupied, he doesn’t have to think about the state of his life.

“Pretty pathetic, huh?” he muses out loud to Rufus. Rufus’s ear twitches but he doesn’t pick up his head.

There’s a single slim letter from Sadie.

_Your poor ma. She were handed a shit life but she made a Hell of a thing of it._

_I am back further east than I’ve been since I was a little girl to discover why Cornwall’s kin sent Pinkertons out against John. Apparently, they only wanted to see Dutch accounted for, not your pa nor Javier or even that idiot Bill. I suppose they should be applauded for choosing Edgar Ross as half of the pair that dogged the Van der Linde gang in ’99. That sick bastard wanted to see us all done and in turn, I’ll do the same to him._

There are so many things about his childhood Jack only remembers dimly. The joy at the smell of the campfire when he was allowed to stay up a little later to listen to singing. The dread of the arguments veiled through canvas tents.

A sunny, if hazy, recollection of fishing with Uncle Arthur is suddenly thrown into stark relief. Arthur shifted his weight so Jack could not see the gleam of badges on the two men with a lot of ominous talk about people Jack knew, people Jack cared about.

It had probably been weeks at that point, but Jack recalls finally asking after Mac Callander. Jack never saw Mac again.

Never mind who paid him, Agent Ross hunted them as remorselessly in the old century as he does in the new. He chooses to never stop.

Jack’s still alive; he could be next. All his parents’ friends have hidden in their anonymity – it won’t last forever. At the rate Sadie’s going, she’s going to run out of luck quick.

Since momma died, Jack’s drifted. He holds to the farm for his parents’ memory, but it is not a purpose. Now he knows he has one; he’s going to kill Edgar Ross.

Uncomfortable with the weight of a rifle and even more so with killing, Jack Marston has never been more sure of anything in his life. He doesn’t care if it’s well-intentioned or plain old revenge, if he gets hung for murder or killed in the attempt.

It’s for Sadie to keep fighting in a way Jack’s never known. For Charles in his peaceful solitude that keeps eluding Jack. For Mary-Beth to keep telling her stories, since one of the gang should be keeping the old tales alive. For Tilly to keep her family close – her daughters aren’t going to suffer what Jack did again and again.

For momma. For pa.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This boy has been through Too Much.


	2. Memories wear thick coats

Jack can manage pa’s revolver better than the rifle; he was always blown back too hard by the kick against his shoulder.

Despite pa’s skill in both, Jack seems to recollect pa favoring the revolver, whatever that means. Jack doubts either firearm will give him an advantage against a seasoned Pinkerton anyway.

Tin cans lined up on the pasture fence, Jack takes a shot.

_Miss._

_Why didn’t he press pa into teaching him to be a better shot?_ Jack sighs and tries again.

The sound of metal hitting metal reverberates around the farmyard, but the can only wobbles in response.

_Again._

The third shot blows a hole straight through the can.

He sleeps little and what sleep he does find offers no rest. All of Jack’s free time is spent practicing, day and night. He doesn’t know how he’ll find the Pinkerton agent, but he has to be ready for anything.

He catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror. Jack’s used to the company of ghosts; he never figured he’d catch a genuine one like a spirit photographer. Dark circles under his eyes, Jack is struck for the first time fully how much he looks like his father.

“Don’t be ridiculous, you’re no John Marston,” he mutters to himself.

Rufus cocks his head in confusion, looking at Jack like he’s crazy. Jack most certainly believes he’s losing some of his sanity here alone.

The beard has to go. Jack shaves most everything. His last haircut was from momma; he leaves that untouched.

Looking at the few remaining livestock, taking care of them is the final thing weighing on Jack’s conscience. He could be gone weeks, a month – forever. He has no solution until idly gazing at the last of the cattle.

Jack rides out to the McFarlane Ranch the next day. It’s hard to not be a little jealous of how well it seems to thrive compared to his own. Momma and Pa would never have wanted an enterprise so large, but Beecher’s Hope could be doing better.

Jack knocks on the ranch house door, nervously spinning pa’s hat in his hands as he waits on the porch. ‘Heavy is the head that wears the crown’ Jack read somewhere once. It’s a stupid notion because pa would reject it on principle and the beat-up old hat is a far cry from any crown.

Bonnie McFarlane squints at him curiously through the screen door.

“I’m sorry for the call without warning, Miss McFarlane. It’s Jack Marston,” he says, in case she does not recognize him.

Stepping out, “Of course Jack, hello. I ain’t Miss McFarlane no more, but you can still call me Bonnie.” Her wedding ring glints as she gestures to join her on a bench. “I saw the notice about your mother. I was sorry learn she passed, but it was a lovely piece. Did you write it?”

Jack nods as he swallows the lump in his throat.

“I know what it’s like, losing a mother. I can’t imagine what you’ve gone through losing both your parents. Your father wasn’t much of a talker, but it was plain to see you and your mother were his world.”

Now’s Jack’s chance. He speaks rapidly, lest he lose the courage to ask. “I have unfinished family business that needs to be seen to. Might I impose on you, to look after Beecher’s Hope while I’m gone? Any profit made you can keep; I just can’t see it go to ruin while I’m gone. It would mean a great deal. Please?”

Jack’s not sure what the shifts in Bonnie’s expression mean as he speaks. Pity maybe, turns to a frown, to what Jack almost takes for understanding.

“Sure. I can spare a few hands for a while. Keeping a family farm going is important.”

Jack means to head out for Blackwater before dawn. He packs his things the night before. Pa’s revolver is clean and ready. God willing, Jack will only have to fire it once.

Even with Bonnie’s reassurance Beecher’s Hope will be safe, Jack checks to see his parents’ letters are folded into Uncle Arthur’s journal. He grabs the two family photos, putting in them journal for safekeeping as well. He still fears he’ll forget their faces; he must keep them clear in his memory at all times.

The journal slips into Jack’s saddlebag, for what, he doesn’t know.

Jack practically doesn’t sleep. The sun hasn’t even started to lighten the sky when he throws off his blanket and gets dressed.

Rufus watches Jack saddle up his horse from the porch.

“Sorry old boy, but I have to ride fast. You’ll have to watch the place while I’m gone,” Jack explains, sitting on the steps to scratch between the dog’s ears. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

Rufus wags his tail. Jack hopes he can believe it himself.

\----------

Edgar Ross is dead and it is by sheer dumb luck.

Even in retirement the Pinkerton should have outdrawn Jack, but fate had Jack go faster. All the calm Jack had walking up to the river is gone, his heart going like the staccato of a telegraph.

The man’s blood is starting to drain into the river. It’s only a matter of time before someone comes looking for Ross. Jack mounts his horse, urging breakneck speed.

At a far enough remove, Jack offers the horse reprieve. Jack vomits on the side of the road, though it’s little relief for his churning stomach.

He sits down in the dirt, gasping for air. He hasn’t had a fit like this in ages and neither of his parents are there to calm him.

_How did pa do it, time and again? Even momma killed in her life._

Jack must be as weak as he always feared he was.

He lingers longer than he should. God knows how soon the law will be on him and in Jack’s life, they’ve always moved quick.

Jack’s legs wobble underneath him as he climbs back on the horse, riding into the night.

The next morning there’s another rider on the road; Jack’s shoulders tense and he grips the reigns a little tighter. Even when he recognizes Sadie’s greatcoat, Jack is still on edge.

“Where’ve you been?” she demands.

For such a small woman, Sadie Adler always loomed large in Jack’s life and he shrinks against her ferocity.

“Went to see to Ross,” he barely manages.

Hands on her hips, “I’m glad you turned back. Let me handle it.”

“I killed him.”

“What?” Sadie’s voice is dangerously flat.

Stronger, “You heard me.”

Sadie’s arms fall at her side as she lets out a sound of disgust. “I was gonna handle that.”

“By handle, you mean make it worse.” Jack doesn’t know why he’s trying to piss off his ally in this endeavor, but something takes over him.

Sadie raises her voice, “Excuse me?”

“You’re not the only one who gets to be mad at the world, Sadie! It’s not just your revenge that matters!” Jack shakes with a rage he didn’t know was in him.

Maybe this is what killing does to a person because it isn’t even for Sadie, but it spills out. Maybe this is why Sadie’s like this. Why pa was like that. Jack hates it.

Sadie’s scowl twists into something else, something softer. She pats Jack’s shoulder. “Alright Jack, it’s done. How much of a trail is there?”

“Dunno.”

“Okay. You head home now. I’ll see to the rest.”

Jack won’t argue further.

It’s well after midnight when Jack rides back onto Beecher’s Hope; Rufus’s sleepy but contented face greeting him and a couple bewildered hands from the McFarlane place.

“Funny hour you getting back. This is nice land you got here, if you ever commit to it,” the man called Amos says.

Jack hastily scribbles down two identical notes to be sent the next day. _I killed Edgar Ross._

He doesn’t bother getting out of his travel-stained clothes as he collapses onto his bed. A wolf howls in the distance outside. For the first time in months, Jack sleeps through the night.

\----------

The light through the east window is good; Jack settles in the old spot where he used to read aloud to the family, Rufus at his feet.

He takes a deep breath and opens Uncle Arthur’s journal, as if the people in pages will magically come back.

It’s odd to see Blackwater, a town now far more grown in Jack’s acquaintance described as a target, the beginning of all their ends.

His heart skips at the first mention of his parents – arguing of course. It shouldn’t warm his heart, but it does. They were a prickly pair, even to the end.

It’s like a half-remembered dream of events and people, Arthur’s drawing pulling out people Jack might only have imagined. He stares for a long while at the rendering of old man Hosea.

And it’s not just gang members, it’s errant strangers, the flora and fauna of the wilderness.

The man was apparently an incurable romantic. Jack wonders if he’ll ever feel the same about someone or if it’ll be more like his parents. He hopes it’s like them, far more tangible to him in every way he thinks as he flips past the page pa bookmarked with momma’s letter.

Never much of a reader, Jack wonders if pa read anything beyond the pages that mention them.

A chill runs up Jack’s spine reading about Ross, if unnamed. He quickly tries to move past it.

In spite of it, Jack is captivated by the journal, better than any dime novel he’s ever read. He never could write something so felt. Arthur didn’t know what he was.

Jack lingers on the note when he was captured. Momma and pa never really talked about it, but Jack knows it was a nightmare they never quite shook off. Jack strains and strains to remember but there isn’t much beyond a warm hearth.

Reliving everything fall apart fills his stomach with dread in a way his four-year-old self couldn’t grapple with.

Arthur’s writing on his diagnosis forces Jack to look up, blinking back tears.

Momma always put up a front when she was sick; she must have been as scared as Arthur was, facing his mortality. They were both so brave in their time.

Arthur grappling with the morality of what his life was, Jack has never felt more seen by another soul, and he’s only killed one. He wonders if he’ll live with the weight the rest of his life like his long-dead uncle.

It becomes increasingly difficult to read Arthur’s weakening hand. The lump in Jack’s throat is painful and seemingly too large to swallow. Arthur’s silent plea to pa makes Jack want to stop, fearing what the final pages will reveal.

He’s shocked to turn over to a different hand, one with familiar guidelines. _Pa._

Pa _did_ read the whole journal; Jack is sure of it and comforted by it. They both stood witness to Arthur, even if it had to be in death.

Pa doesn’t write half as much as Arthur, which Jack supposes was to be expected, but he is hungry for all of it.

He really thought Jack and momma hated him in those days. Maybe a part of Jack did, but in greater measure, he desperately wanted attention.

That’s his and pa’s sad story, always passing in the night. If only they could go back and change things.

Jack wipes his eyes and turns the page. A surprise laugh bubbles out of him at pa’s funny little sketches, at his drafting Beecher’s Hope. He loves pa fiercely, in spite of everything.

The journal ends abruptly, with the prospect of the wedding and a few odd drawings. Pa is unaware of Susanna, unaware of captivity, unaware of greater joys and sorrows to come.

Jack exhales and closes the journal. The sitting room is darker, over half the day gone.

Jack hasn’t moved nor eaten, nor done anything but feel everything in the journal completely.

He never felt more a part of the Van der Linde gang than relieving its final year. He misses them all so much.

Jack stands up, stretches, lights a cigarette, and sees to his farm.

\----------

Sharp raps on the door come as a surprise, but none so great as Tilly standing on the porch, alone and looking cross.

“Clearly I made a mistake not insisting you come home with us.”

“I’ve got a farm to run,” Jack points out.

“Which you were fine dropping to run off and play gunslinger.”

Jack stares at his boots. “I had it managed.”

“Good, then you can see it done again while you come for a spell with me.”

There’s no arguing with Tilly so Jack packs a suitcase and wires Bonnie. The train doesn’t allow dogs in the passenger cars so Jack makes himself and Rufus as comfortable as possible amongst the luggage.

Saint Denis is always a marvel. Most of his life spent in the wilderness, it’s a wonder anything so big and grand could be man-made.

The maid shows Jack to his room; he slowly puts out his few possessions.

“Is that your family?” Tilly’s daughter Florence asks from the doorway as Jack sets the photos on the dresser.

“Yeah.”

“I’m sorry,” she says solemnly before scurrying off.

Jack didn’t realize he’d miss work clothes until he comes down for breakfast in shirts with starched collars. He needed the shave and haircut though.

He learns Tilly’s been busy with charitable enterprises. Florence is very studious but prefers to be called ‘Flossie’. Irene cannot sit still to her teacher’s apparent despair.

“What about your own schooling?” Mr. Pierre inquires.

Jack shrugs, “All those savings went into Beecher’s Hope, which is just as well. It’s a far better investment than college for me.”

It’s Tilly’s look of pity Jack cannot bear, like he gave up on everything momma wanted for him.

There’s a wire from Sadie that afternoon. _All’s well. Just as well you stay in Saint Denis all the same._

Jack goes with Tilly to her causes during the week.

“I grew up with his mother and he’s with us now,” is the repeated introduction. _He’s got no one left_ is omitted every time.

Conversation moves on to the war in Europe and the state of suffrage, of Adella Hunt Logan’s prospects or if they’re stuck with Alice Paul.

Sundays Jack must reckon with sitting through church for the first time in his life. Some readings are lyrical and beautiful, most are dry as paint.

Flossie tries so hard to be prim and adult; Irene kicks her legs in boredom. Jack usually winds up between the two to keep them from making a scene. He spends most of the time watching the other parishioners.

It’s not just children who fuss, plenty of adults fail to stifle yawns or barely conceal they’re checking their pocket watches. Others are in raptures; Jack is almost jealous it gives them fulfillment.

On nice days when the girls aren’t in school, Jack takes them to the park. They always walk ahead of him, confident in their knowledge of the city.

The first time Jack watches them step into the street hand-in-hand without a second thought; he sees a splash of bloody red that sucks the air from his lungs. Neither Flossie nor Irene notice his distress. The city garden isn’t wide enough for Jack to escape.

He can’t forget his sister’s corpse pressed against his chest. It’s so heavy he wakes up some nights gasping for air. Momma used to be there to hold him; even pa could manage to put a hand between Jack’s shoulders until it passed.

In this mansion with so many other people, Jack is alone in this. He needs a new frontier, like the horizon Charles crossed and never came back.

On rainy days they play with Rufus indoors. He’s adapted to Saint Denis far more readily than Jack. Half-blind, he takes up residence in front of the kitchen stove, receiving the choicest scraps from the girls to the chagrin of the cook.

It’s cozy, but Jack is still missing something. He has an out, should he seek it, but he’s almost afraid what Charles would say to Jack’s request.

Some nights Jack sneaks onto the porch to smoke in a spot the neighbors cannot see to spare Tilly the embarrassment.

Tilly joins him one evening, lighting up her own cigarette.

“If you ain’t happy here, I ain’t forcing you to stay,” she says with an exhale, all polite society dropped, the old Tilly Jack knows best. “But I can’t bear you all alone out there. It doesn’t sit right with me.”

“I know. And it’s not that I dislike it here, it’s just…” Jack is torn between needing company and wide-open spaces, two things he thought he could have done without as a child.

Tilly pats his hand, “It’s alright Jack. If you need to go home, go home.”

“Actually, I was thinking of going to Canada – to see Charles.”

A smile quirks up on Tilly’s face. “Now there’s a fine idea.”

The day Jack leaves, he shakes hands with Mr. Pierre.

The girls cry holding onto Rufus; it’s better for the old dog, he’ll be in good hands, Jack tells himself over and over. It’s something of a wretch hugging Flossie and Irene goodbye.

Tilly fiddles with Jack’s coat collar. “I had Cook pack extra for you. It’s a long journey.”

“Thank you for everything Tilly.”

Tilly’s brow furrows, Jack can see she’s trying to mask her tears.

“I promise I won’t be a stranger,” he squeezes her hand.

Outside the city limits, Jack could swear the swamp air blows cool from the north.

\----------

Jack has to ask around the one-street town for Charles Smith. He’s reminded of his family’s time in the Yukon, all the drawn and unfriendly faces leering suspiciously at him, the outsider. It’s the kind of place one does their business and doesn’t linger.

“Smith?” a man punctuates the question with a spit of tobacco. “Aways up the mountain, _boy_.”

Jack says thank you because momma taught him manners, but can’t get away fast enough.

His horse is tired and won’t make it the rest of the way that evening so he must make camp. He comes across the split-log home and barn bathed in morning light, still frosted over in dew. It reminds Jack of home in all its stillness.

Knocking on the door, he sure as Hell hopes this is Charles’ place; it would be just his luck he’d find the wrong farm and be met with a sawed-off shotgun instead of a friendly face.

Jack exhales a visible breath as the door swings open and the warm air from the hearth spills out.

Greyer, it is still the same Charles Smith who rode out after his parents’ wedding. Squinting his eyes in disbelief, “Jack?”

“Hey Charles,” Jack gives a small wave.

Charles claps him hard but friendly on the shoulder. “Come in, come in!”

Jack rubs the tip of his nose warm, taking in Charles’s home. It’s more crammed than Jack would have expected for Charles, but still quite cozy.

“I’m sorry, I should have written I was coming,” Jack apologizes.

“Instead of just saying you killed a Pinkerton, no further explanation?”

It’s not an accusation like Sadie levied nor a sigh of disappointment from Tilly.

Besides, Charles didn’t write back at all when Jack wrote to him. He has no right to sit in judgement of Jack now, months after.

“It had to be done.”

“I know.”

Jack is reminded of eavesdropping on the conversation when he was supposed to be in bed. Momma patching everyone up, Sadie insisting her wounds were worth Micah Bell’s life. Momma’s mouth was a thin line of disapproval when pa made a grunt of agreement. Charles didn’t chime in, no arguing against the inevitable.

Jack couldn’t name the expression on the man’s face, but now he’d call it relief the whole business was done.

Charles clears his throat and says, perhaps too cheerily, “What brings you all the way up here?”

“I was staying with Tilly for a while but Saint Denis didn’t suit.”

Charles chuckles knowingly.

“And I didn’t want to stay at home alone.”

“So you thought of me here?”

Jack shifts his weight, embarrassed. “It’s an imposition, I’m sorry.”

“Hardly, but –” Charles begins to say when the door opens without a cursory knock.

Another man, Indian, comes in bundled against the late autumn chill.

“We have a visitor.”

“I can see that,” the newcomer says wryly.

“George, this is Jack. You know, Marston’s boy.”

“Sir,” Jack extends a hand as George pulls off his glove for a firm handshake.

“What brings you all the way up here?” George asks.

Jack opens his mouth, but Charles cuts him off, Charles who Jack has only known to speak after deliberate thought. “Jack will be staying with us until he’s back on his feet.”

Still stunned, Jack manages, “Thank you. I appreciate it.”

“Of course. Your father did the same for me when I needed it. Come on, you must be hungry.”

Jack sets about helping with breakfast. He doesn’t notice right away, but there’s something about the way Charles and George move about each other in the cramped space, anticipating each other’s movement to step out of the way, but also not avoiding each other either. It strangely reminds Jack of momma and pa.

He’s coming back in with more firewood when he catches Charles with his hand on the small of George’s back, just as Jack saw his parents hundreds of times. There’s a part of Jack that maybe should be shocked, but he’s seen so little of the world, it can’t be so strange.

Charles and George glance at Jack, on edge but not moving. Jack gives a small smile; the tension ease out of the cabin.

Conversation is light if infrequent. George asks how the roads up the mountains were. They all wonder how harsh the coming winter will be.

“’99 was a raw one, let’s hope it’s not like that.” Charles laughs, glancing at Jack for some kind of recognition.

Jack remembers being terribly cold before Blackwater; winter bled into spring and momma could not bear to look at pa. “A year that might have been better had it not happened.”

He doesn’t mean to sound petulant, like a child. Jack grimaces at himself. Charles and George exchange a look.

George drains his coffee cup. “I’ll see to the sheep and leave you two alone.”

Neither speaks for a minute.

“I’m sorry all that had to happen to you.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Jack says dully.

“So what’s this about?” Charles leans across the table.

Jack shifts in his seat. “I don’t know. I’ve been thinking about Uncle Arthur a lot these days.”

Charles withdraws, sitting back against the chair. Some of the tension from earlier returns. “Your father didn’t talk about him much.”

Jack shakes his head. “No, but he had Arthur’s old journal. I read it.”

He reaches for his saddlebag and pulls it out, laying it between them on the table. Charles simply stares at it.

“Is it odd I miss him even though I don’t really remember him?” Jack asks.

Charles strokes his chin, contemplating the journal, not even glancing at Jack.

“Not at all. Do you mind if I read it?”

“I’d like you to.”

Jack leaves the cabin, George lingering outside. He sets Jack up in a stall in the barn, warm and dry, comfortable enough for the duration of Jack’s stay.

Guilt creeps in and Jack busies himself with chores. If he’s going to impose on their hospitality, he ought to earn his keep.

The smell of pipe smoke wafts Jack’s direction as he sets down a hay bale. Charles leans against the back of the cabin, smoking and in deep thought. Jack joins him, lighting a cigarette.

“I’m not finished. Can I hold onto it a bit longer?”

“As long as you need. I’m not going anywhere just yet.”

As they smoke in silence, Jack supposes it’s easier to miss Arthur than his family, the weight is all there. But for now, he doesn’t have to miss anyone, for he is not alone.

\----------

It starts with a dog-eared copy of Theodore Levin. Jack’s read it over a dozen times since childhood, but now it feels particularly trite.

He doesn’t see pa nor Arthur in its protagonist; Charles, Sadie or any of the others either in its pages the way he did as a boy. Perhaps that’s why he kept reading: to find someone he knows and in finding them absent, why he always thought of writing, as far-fetched as it seemed.

He orders a paper-covered journal from Wheeler-Rawson, it arrives the same day as a report from Bonnie. It’s been near a year since Jack was last home, he can only shirk responsibility so long.

Armed with his new acquisition, Arthur’s journal, and a cigarette, Jack settles where he can keep an eye on Charles and George’s flock. It’s daunting, facing the idea of himself as a writer, putting pen to paper.

He consults Arthur’s writing less than he expects however, as a story begins to take shape into the adventures and observances of a young boy in the waning days of the frontier. Reading it over, Jack shakes his head at his own self-indulgence.

He scribbles in between chores, as the last of the kerosene dwindles in his lantern. The story changes, the hero gets older. Sadder, angrier. It was never about Jack.

His guilty conscious nags as fall harvest is collected.

“I ought to ride south before the snows,” he says one evening.

“I’m surprised you tolerated sleeping in a barn as long as you have,” Charles grins.

“You’re forgetting I spent practically half my life in tents. A barn is luxurious,” Jack laughs. “I’ve imposed on both of you long enough.”

“You’re always welcome back.”

Jack thinks there’s enough of his father’s restlessness in him he’ll be back sooner rather than later.

Jack scribbles off more lines on the road. Staring at the night sky in all its vastness, he can imagine his world isn’t rapidly shrinking. He can’t quite convey in his writing the safety of the isolation, how it mixes with profound inescapable sadness all the same.

He rides as far south as New Austin to thank Bonnie in person. “I can’t ever repay you for this, but I want to try.”

She waves him off. “Don’t fret about it, it was good to stretch my legs and see to the hands.”

A young woman, primly dressed and bespectacled walks up to the front porch where they sit but not mounting the steps.

“Finished taking stock, Bonnie.”

“Appreciate it, Eleanor!” Bonnie calls out as the girl waves and walks away.

Jack isn’t aware he’s staring until Bonnie clears her throat.

“Amos’s youngest. Eleanor’s back home from out west. She was teaching but came back to help out with her parents and the ranch. Nice girl, know her since she were born.”

“That is nice,” Jack mumbles. His ears are burning for some reason.

Beecher’s Hope still looks shabby in comparison to Bonnie’s place, but it hasn’t fallen down yet and Jack’s grateful.

_He has a home. He has people._

He calls on Bonnie one Sunday a month for dinner. Eleanor always seems to be there, making him consider he ought to ride down every other week.

He plans to ride back to Canada once the spring planting’s done, help out with expanding flock.

He contemplates getting a dog. Momma was right; all ranches need a dog.

And at night when everything is still and perfect, Jack writes.

\----------

The ring Jack wants to propose with is buried with momma. He receives one of her family’s rings when he asks Eleanor’s father’s blessing.

They are content with a long engagement. Beecher’s Hope isn’t earning enough for Jack’s liking, the war drives prices up, and influenza keeps everyone at bay, even in the country. Jack waits out the duration in Canada.

_No shame in what you’re doing. You’ve seen enough in your life_ , Tilly writes when guilt knots in his stomach. Eleanor writes she’s had no news of her brother.

Jack continues to whittle away at the book. For now, the protagonist is Arthur, wasting away from disease with no cure. Every cough sends Jack back to dark memories of Beaver Hollow.

Armistice is called. Eleanor’s brother comes back; many other ranch hands do not.

As Jack heads home, Charles promises to ride south as soon as they set a date. Sadie makes no such commitment but writes she’ll visit as soon as ‘the happy couple has worn themselves out.’

They’ve been apart for so long; Eleanor is the one who says anything first. Cheeks pinking, “We _are_ going to be married. Shouldn’t we know before?”

Pa gave Jack an awkward talk on fornication, or as pa more colloquially put it, fucking; Jack couldn’t walk away fast enough.

They’re shy at first and while Jack wouldn’t call pa’s talk entirely helpful, it wasn’t completely useless either. Besides, Jack’s life has been time close quarters with adults. He’s noticed things.

It would be easier if they could be alone at Beecher’s Hope, but they manage, laughing together at their fumbling inexperience.

“We ought to set a date soon,” Eleanor says on a late afternoon walk before Jack returns home.

“I suppose a two year-long engagement has people talking.”

“And a baby preceding the wedding will have them talking more.”

Jack halts in his tracks. “You’re pregnant?”

“Seems likely. Mother and I can get my trousseau together quickly, but I am sorry your family might not make it in time –”

“But are you excited? For our baby?”

Jack’s ears are ringing, but he’s sure he’s grinning ear-to-ear.

Color rises in Eleanor’s face, though not from shame. “I couldn’t be happier.”

Jack hugs her close. His mind races on the road home, alone for near the last time.

He should have offered momma’s dress, safe in the linen press. Save Eleanor and her mother having to make a new one, but it must be terribly old-fashioned.

He can’t stop thinking about how little money there is; daunting enough taking on a wife, but a wife _and_ child? Jack understands pa with a startling clarity he didn’t think possible. He’s got a few years on pa for fatherhood, but he’s still young and the responsibility is terrifying as it is exhilarating.

But even in understanding, Jack somehow forgives pa even less for walking out on momma and him when he was a baby. At least he came back.

He writes letters to everyone with the news, alternating between joy and nerves. Midway through the letter to Sadie, Jack stops and pulls out a fresh piece of paper.

_Dear Mary-Beth…_

If there was money, Jack would buy himself a typewriter to transcribe his manuscript, but as such, he must send his one and only handwritten copy. He doesn’t rest easy until it is back in his hands with a note from Mary-Beth.

_It’s lovely Jack, puts me right back to those years in the sweetest and saddest way. Unfortunately, it’s too lovely for my publisher, truth be told. There’s always a market for the pulp novels if money is a concern._

_And congratulations. Eleanor is a lucky girl and I’m sure the baby will be as cute as you._

Jack heeds her advice, his old drafts easily turn into gunslingers and outlaws on the adventures everyone thought the life was.

Within a few short weeks, Eleanor Marston is installed in Beecher’s Hope; Charles rides down with George, Tilly and her family take the train west, Bonnie stands with the rest of Eleanor’s people.

Within months, there’s a paperback with Jack Marston’s name on the cover and shortly after that, Arthur Marston is born in the same room as his aunt was years before.

\----------

The farm is always raucous, far different from Jack’s solitary time.

The twins follow several years after Arthur. Eleanor takes snapshots of everything with her camera, filling the mantel and crowding out the old Marston family photos, Jack and Eleanor’s wedding portrait is now the centerpiece.

The children chase the dog around the ranch, mindful not to step on the graves, but not seeing them either. Jack wonders if it’s better that way.

Jimmy has a habit for destruction and chaos. Jack can only imagine pa at that age. Jack can already tell Maggie will be the picture of momma when she grows up.

Arthur takes after Eleanor completely, but Jack knows the namesake was apt. His oldest is a moderating presence for his siblings; he loves playing with Eleanor’s camera.

The family gives Jack a typewriter for his thirtieth birthday. He’s almost intimidated by its gleam, like a gun brandished in sunlight, but it serves as a reminder, he must finish his book.

“I want to do it justice, _them_ justice,” he confesses to Eleanor after the children have been put to bed.

Slowly, he writes to everyone with questions about those years, of his plans to travel to the old haunts. The family is treated to a few days in Saint Denis while Jack takes down as much as he can from Tilly.

“I had Hosea and Lenny reinterred when the city started to encroach, at least before the Crash. Felt bad I couldn’t do the same for the rest,” she sighs.

Old women dressed up in their mothers’ crinolines give tours about the summer there was a second Yankee incursion in Lemoyne, laying waste to their fields, burning the grand old Braithwaite mansion to the ground.

“Not sure that’s exactly what happened,” Jack points out. They narrow their eyes at his accent; Jack shuts up to take in the sights without further questioning.

Annesburg reminds Jack of the day pa came back to their new home, covered in another man’s blood, saying they had to run again. They’d only just begun to unpack. There was always blood.

He writes to Pearson and the Reverend. Reverend Swanson apologizes his memories of the Van der Linde gang are muddled by morphine. Pearson, who has no such excuse, writes back long, embellished stories Jack knows only contain the faintest truth. He thanks them both anyway.

Sadie shows up on the doorstep of Beecher’s Hope, the very picture of an old frontierswoman the children shrink from until she produces candy from her pockets.

“Taking you up to Colter,” she says more an order than an invitation. She shifts uncomfortably.

“You don’t have –”

“Only going because Charles promised he’d meet us.”

Valentine, Strawberry, all the small towns have grown, no longer wilderness. Jack is taken aback how remote and alone Colter remains, no different when they sheltered there in the spring storm.

The town not buried in snow is a strange sight, but they still must bundle against the brisk mountain air. Charles greets them with solid hugs, sticking close to Sadie as they approach her old homestead.

She collapses to her knees, ugly sobs overtaking her; Jack cannot bear it. His heart aches for Sadie, for the memory of momma in the same position. God help him if Eleanor ever has to do the same.

Thank goodness Charles is there, speaking in a low voice only Sadie can hear. She collects herself after a spell, but violent hiccups escape on occasion.

“Pa always meant to take me and momma to Arthur’s grave.”

Charles brow furrows. “Yeah, I can take you.”

“And I’m long overdue for paying my respects,” Sadie wipes her nose on her sleeve.

The view takes Jack’s breath away. He can’t think of a more beautiful spot for the weather-beaten marker. If Arthur had to spent an eternity anywhere, it ought to be here.

Charles lingers after Jack and Sadie walk away. Jack turns to call over to Charles; Sadie shakes her head. “Don’t be dense, boy.”

Jack clears his throat. “Oh. Right.”

They part ways on the road and Jack’s work begins in earnest.

The children have claimed Uncle’s old loft as their playroom, but Jack finds some of his better work happens pressed up against the window.

“Dad?” Arthur calls from the bottom of the ladder.

“Up here.”

“Are you crying?” Arthur asks when his head emerges.

Jack hadn’t realized. “Suppose I am.”

Arthur sidles next to him, knees tucked under his chin in an act of comfort Jack knows he couldn’t have managed with pa at that age. “How come?”

“I miss a lot of folks. Your grandparents, mostly.”

“Why write about it if it makes you sad?”

Growing up too fast and still so young. “Strange as it may sound to you, it helps.”

“I snuck a look at some pages,” Arthur confesses. “The hero’s grandpa, right? I can’t believe he was a gunslinger like all your other books.”

If only it were that simple. “You’re old enough to know it was more complicated than that.”

“You don’t talk about him much.”

Jack’s tried so many ways to be John Marston, to not be John Marston. Arthur simply repeats the same refrain back to Jack.

“Once this is done, I’ll tell you and your siblings everything. I promise.”

\----------

_Red Dead Redemption_ isn’t selling as well as Jack’s pulp novels. Money’s always an issue, but Jack finds he doesn’t mind it. The book’s done and he’s proud of it.

“Look at this review,” Eleanor slides the _Blackwater Ledger_ across the table.

_While perhaps not as thrilling as his previous outings, Jack Marston’s newest work is a far more personal tale, calling back to our parents’ day. Also published this month, Rose W. Lane’s_ Let the Hurricane Roar _attempts a similar effect but is flimsy on emotion where it needs it. Only time will tell if Mr. Marston or Mrs. Lane’s story will stand the test of time._

“I’d rather it didn’t have to be a competition,” Jack sighs, folding the paper.

“They _liked_ it.”

“As long as you did too.”

Eleanor chuckles and clears away breakfast. Jack rolls up his sleeves, lighting a cigarette to see to the unfinished morning chores. Dirt the color of lingering bloodstains crunches under Jack’s boots.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jack's professional rivalry with Rose Wilder Lane was a dumb shower thought so of course I needed it to be canon.

**Author's Note:**

> This boy has been through Too Much.


End file.
